The Collaborators

by Reginald Hill

  ‘So he gave them Christian but he didn’t give them you. Odd, that,’ said Simonian staring at Delaplanche speculatively.

  ‘He gave them everyone he knew, including me,’ said the man calmly. ‘We got the others safely hidden as soon as we heard the news. When I heard Christian had gone to ground, I guessed he’d been warned too.’

  ‘So why didn’t the Boche pick you up?’

  ‘They did. They interrogated me. They let me go.’

  ‘Just like that?’ said Simonian incredulously.

  ‘Not quite. There were phone calls, in and out. Angry scenes. Threats on both sides. Then they let me go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because so far, I’ve managed to confuse the issue. I can’t work underground like you, Monsieur Simonian. I’m a public figure. I must move publicly. That in a way is my security. My name appears on no party list. I have voted for all the centrist parties at some point. When this war started and I saw what my role must be, I planned for it. If I could not rise above suspicion, I would smother myself in it! From the very beginning I’ve had accusers. Not an act of terrorism occurs without a stream of anonymous delations against me pouring into the Majestic and the Rue des Saussaies. Men like Theo have instructions if they are caught and questioned about me to babble out agreement with whatever suggestions the Boche make. Thus by being manifestly innocent of ninety per cent of what I’m accused of, I’ve so far managed to keep my head above water.

  ‘I’ve also got friends. And there are people in power on both sides that I know enough about for them to value my silence. But there are more ways than one of ensuring silence. Perhaps the Gestapo’s patience will finally snap and they’ll simply send a bunch of their French friends round to blow my head off in a fit of patriotic fury.’

  He concluded and watched for Simonian’s reaction with a faint smile.

  ‘You’re a brave man, monsieur.’

  ‘Am I? If so, it’s a finite quality and I think I’ve almost drained the barrel.’

  ‘I think not. You’ve been frank with me. Now I’ll be frank with you. What plans have you got for Christian?’

  ‘Plans? All my plans for Christian are ruined, you must see that!’

  ‘So you have no plans? Good. Then you’ll have no objection if he transfers his allegiance to my group?’

  Suddenly Valois erupted.

  ‘It’s me you’re talking about!’ he yelled. ‘Me! I’m here, in the same room! I’ve got ears. I’m a man, not a beast in a cattle market.’

  Delaplanche turned to him and said gently, ‘Don’t be so offended, my friend. I’m sorry if we seem high-handed, but Monsieur Simonian is right. Your future is too important to be left solely to you. Look at yourself! You look dreadful. It’s a real strain this kind of thing. Later, you must make your own decisions about the detail. But the broad movement and direction is down to your friend and me. After all, if neither of us wants you, then that would leave you very awkwardly placed, wouldn’t it?’

  He turned back to Simonian without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Agreed. He’s yours. I think it’s best. Now I must go. I’ve been here too long already. Christian, goodbye. I hope we’ll meet in happier times very soon. Any message for your parents?’

  ‘You’ll be seeing them?’ said Valois eagerly.

  ‘Yes. I saw them a couple of times when I was in Vichy recently. I was able to advise them how best to react to the news of your disappearance, where to put pressure on, how to inhibit an immediate and energetic interrogation from the start. It seems to have worked.’

  ‘Are they well?’

  ‘Concerned, naturally. A double concern as it happens. Your sister…’

  ‘What about my sister?’ interrupted Valois fearfully.

  ‘It’s all right! Nothing’s wrong. She just ran away from home, that’s all. She’s bored by Vichy, it seems. Well, who can blame her? And there was an attachment, to an “unsuitable” young man, which I presume in Vichy means someone who supports the Resistance! Your parents broke it up. She disappeared. They’ve had a postcard from Besançon saying she’s there. She knows someone in Besançon, I gather?’

  ‘An old school friend,’ said Valois.

  ‘Well, let’s hope she stays there and doesn’t try to get into Switzerland. But she sounds a determined young lady. Goodbye, Christian. Take care.’

  He shook hands and left. Simonian followed him out of the room and spoke in a low voice to one of his men in the hallway. When he returned he found Valois slumped forward with his head between his hands.

  ‘Christian! Cheer up! You’re alive and free. Your sister too. And your parents. So why so sad?’

  Valois said, ‘My parents. What do you think will happen when the war ends, Jean-Paul? To people like my father, I mean. Men who’ve gone along with the Marshal and collaborated.’

  Simonian said neutrally, ‘It depends how far they’ve gone, I’d say. But they must pay something, you can see that can’t you, Christian? And as for rubbish like my wife’s cousin, I wouldn’t even waste the expense of a trial on him!’

  Valois laughed humourlessly.

  ‘So, token trial or summary execution for everyone tainted with collaboration, eh? I hope no one’s in a hurry to rebuild France after the war, Jean-Paul. From the sound of it, for the first year or so you won’t be able to move for bodies in the streets.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Let’s hope that for the last year of the war you won’t be able to move for German bodies. Talking of which, are you really interested in joining us? Or would you rather let your tally stop at one?’

  For a second Valois looked at him without comprehension. Then he said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not quite…yes, of course, Jean-Paul, that’s what I want more than anything.’

  ‘Good,’ said Simonian. ‘Then it’s back to school for you. Excuse me.’

  He went out and returned a moment later with a gun in his hands.

  ‘This is what they call a Sten gun,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look much, but this particular weapon has done more for France than General Big-nose sitting in London. It’s killed at least a dozen Boche. Let me show you how to strip it down.’

  Two hours later they were still sitting in the room surrounded by a confusion of weapons.

  Simonian watched critically as his friend assembled a machine pistol, loaded the magazine and rammed it into place.

  ‘I think I’ve been underestimating you, Christian,’ he said. ‘You know it wouldn’t surprise me if by the end of the year you weren’t even better known to the Germans than your father!’

  Valois looked at him then began to laugh.

  Soon both men were laughing together. But it was not a harmonious sound.

  9

  ‘Another year,’ said Marc du Prat. ‘Not perhaps the best.’

  ‘Fiscally speaking, you mean?’ said Léon Valois.

  ‘Of course. What else?’

  The two men were well matched, of an age, both going grey with distinction, both wearing anonymous grey suits of immaculate English cut. But du Prat’s lean intelligent face showed little sign of stress except for a certain watchfulness about the eyes.

  Léon Valois by contrast looked worn and haggard. It was understandable, thought du Prat with a pang of sympathy. He must be worried sick about that crazy son of his. Who’d have thought it? Christian a terrorist, high on the Gestapo’s wanted list. It must have ruined Léon’s standing in Vichy. Though looked at another way, a year from now a Vichy politician might be very glad indeed to have a Resistant son to shelter behind!

  ‘None of our friends here tonight?’ said Valois looking round the crowded room.

  The occasion was a semi-formal Christmas reception given by a few senior civil servants. Rumour had it that its real function was to provide those wishing to escape German invitations with an alibi. There was to be no repeat of the glittering parties of 1940, but celebrations there were in plenty, and men of prudence were beginning to be careful who they were
seen with.

  ‘No,’ said du Prat. ‘We’re a simple homespun crowd.’

  He felt there was something contemptuous in the way Valois was looking at him and let himself grow indignant. For God’s sake, if the man was so proud of his German friends, what was he doing here tonight?

  The indignation faded as he acknowledged its artificiality. He’d promised himself not to mention Christian but now he said impulsively, ‘Any word of your son?’

  ‘No,’ said Valois shortly.

  Meaning, he’s not going to tell me even if there is!

  ‘If you hear from him, give him my best wishes,’ he said. ‘My wife and I are very fond of him, you know.’

  True, as far as it could be. And there was never any harm in casting a bit of bread upon muddy waters!

  But it was time for a change of subject.

  ‘Good lord,’ he said. ‘See who’s just come in? Delaplanche!’

  ‘Who? Where?’

  Valois turned to look. The stocky figure of the lawyer stood in the doorway, his leathery features set in the veiled amusement of the peasant at the sight of these upper-class antics. But he hadn’t strayed in by accident. One of the hosts went across to greet him with a fond embrace and led him to a group of equally senior men.

  ‘I don’t know how he does it!’ said du Prat admiringly. ‘Three and a half years, and he’s still wandering loose. They’ve pulled him in half a dozen times, of course, but he’s always either talked his way out, or pulled strings to get himself hauled out. Very strange!’

  ‘You’re not suggesting he’s really working with the Germans, are you?’ said Valois uneasily.

  ‘Who knows?’ said du Prat cynically. ‘Most people are. But I can’t really believe Delaplanche is in their pockets, not unless he’s picking them! He’s just bloody clever, that’s all. The trouble is, the Germans have several simple cures for cleverness. Or so they tell me. Another drink, Monsieur le Deputé?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Léon Valois. ‘I’d better circulate.’

  Strange fellow, thought du Prat as he watched him move away. I really can’t understand what he’s doing here.

  An hour later, Léon Valois had achieved the real purpose of his visit. He went out to the toilet and found Maître Delaplanche waiting there, smoking a strong sweet-smelling cigarette.

  ‘Turkish,’ he said. ‘All I could get.’

  ‘Can we talk?’ asked Valois.

  ‘Until someone comes. But most of that lot are so retentive, they even hang on to their piss as long as they can! No, this is the safest place for you and me, Léon. Neither of us wants to risk a private meeting. Too compromising, eh?’

  He laughed. Valois didn’t join in.

  ‘You said you had news of my son?’

  ‘He hasn’t been in touch direct? No, he wouldn’t want to risk getting you involved, would he? Well, first, understand I haven’t seen him for some time, but I’ve heard from reliable sources that he’s in good health.’

  ‘And safe? Is he safe?’

  Delaplanche laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Léon. Your boy has left safety far behind. He is a highly active, highly effective, highly respected and highly wanted Resistant, or terrorist as they call them in Vichy. I must say I’m surprised. I didn’t really think he had it in him, to be a successful man of action, I mean. Depending on who wins the war, you’ve fathered a very great criminal or a very great hero, Léon. How does that make you feel?’

  ‘All his mother and I want is that he should stay alive,’ said Valois, gripping a washbasin so tight that his knuckles were almost as white as the marble.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Delaplanche, touched by the intensity of the other’s feelings. ‘Léon, a word of advice. In my mind there’s no doubt how this is all going to end. Do yourself a bit of good, eh? I think personally you’ve been absolutely, indefensibly wrong in the path you chose. But at least I think you’ve been honest and honourable in your choice. But that won’t turn aside many bullets when the clean-out starts. So get yourself a few credentials, eh? Don’t be so Simon-pure. Do a few favours, and get them on record! You’ve never been afraid to speak up, but make sure you speak up in the right causes now. A few months from now, I reckon the Gadarene rush to join the Resistance will be such a stampede, you’ll have to shoot Hitler to get yourself noticed!’

  Valois looked at him scornfully and shook his head.

  ‘You want me to be like that pathetic creature, du Prat? God forbid!’

  Delaplanche returned his gaze unblinkingly.

  ‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘Politically what I want is people like you dead, Léon. The du Prats I can easily deal with. I don’t know what came over me. A fit of bourgeois sentimentality! But back to our onions. In case I get the chance to pass a message to Christian, what can I tell him about the family? You don’t look too well, Léon.’

  ‘Don’t tell him that!’ urged Valois. ‘I’m in good health, really. His mother too. Excellent health.’

  ‘And his sister, Marie-Rose.’

  Valois passed his hand wearily over his face.

  ‘Almost as much a worry as Christian,’ he admitted. ‘But for God’s sake, don’t tell him that either.’

  ‘No, but I have to say something. Is she still with her friends in Besançon?’

  ‘So her cards say. But I know it’s not true. A friend visiting Besançon went to the house and found it shut up and empty. Evidently the family left almost a year ago. I think she may have done something crazy like joined a Maquis. Oh Christ, what have I done to my children to make them like this!’

  He looked close to tears. Delaplanche pulled a flask from his pocket.

  ‘Drink some of this,’ he said. ‘Tell me all about it, eh? I’ve got a lot of contacts. Perhaps I can find something out. After all, what are old friends for?’

  A week later it was New Year’s Eve. Delaplanche sat in his apartment on the top floor of a block in the Rue de Monceau overlooking the park. He was alone, but an open bottle of Saint Émilion and two glasses showed he was expecting company. While he waited he studied some papers with the care of a lawyer who knows on how fine a point matters of profit and loss, of life and death, can depend.

  A single knock at the door came. He didn’t move. There came a double knock, another pause, then a quadruple knock, all evenly paced.

  Now he rose and went to the door and said, ’ Chile f

  ’China,’ came the whispered reply.

  Satisfied, he unlocked the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said to the muffled figure outside. ‘I’ve got something very interesting for you.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Alphonse Pajou pressing the trigger of his Mauser automatic pistol. ‘Happy New Year.’

  When Jean-Paul Simonian arrived twenty minutes later, he found the lawyer’s bullet-riddled body lying by the door in a lake of blood. He glanced briefly round the flat. No one else was there. The glasses still stood on the table, but the wine bottle and the papers had gone.

  He stepped carefully back over the corpse, closed the door behind him and ran lightly down the stairs.

  PART SIX

  January-July 1944

  Que voulez-vous la porte était gardée Que voulez-vous nous étions enfermés Que voulez-vous la rue était barrée Que voulez-vous la ville était matée Que voulez-vous nous étions desarmés Que voulez-vous la nuit était tombée Que voulez-vous nous nous sommes aimés

  Paul Éluard, Couvre-feu

  1

  ‘For God’s sake, woman,’ said Mireille Laurentin. ‘Why don’t you give that one his marching orders!’

  It was New Year’s Day. The two women were sitting alone at the kitchen table. A glass of wine had set all the vapours of the previous night’s celebration stirring and Janine, urged by her cousin to extend her stay permanently, had spoken more freely of her situation than she intended.

  ‘He’s my husband,’ she said. ‘I love him. He needs me.’

  ‘Funny way he has of showing it,’ said Mireille.

>   ‘Because he’s a Resistant, you mean?’

  ‘Not exactly. A man’s got to do what he thinks is right. But he’s got to take everything into consideration, hasn’t he? I mean, your fellow doesn’t seem to consider anything but himself from what you say. Look, we all hate the Boche, right? We all want to see ‘em chucked out and they know it. So the bastards put notices up in Lyon and round the villages saying what they’ll do to the families of anyone caught with the Resistance. Men get shot, women get hard labour, kids get sent to a reform school, that’s the gist of it. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So Lucien decided not to join the Resistance?’ said Janine, relieved to be assured once more that her children weren’t staying in an endangered home.

  ‘With a bit of help from me, he decided,’ grinned Mireille. ‘Oh I don’t say he doesn’t drop the odd sack of vegetables to those maquisards up in the hills. But as for going around shooting people and blowing things up, Lucien’s got more sense than to get mixed up with that. No, no one’s going to bother us for the odd sack of potatoes, are they? But from what you say, your Jean-Paul’s gone a lot further than that! If he gets caught, that’s you and the kids dropped right in it.’

  ‘Perhaps he won’t get caught,’ said Janine unhappily.

  Now the children came in, wet with snow. They’d been sledging. Céci was red with exertion and excitement, full of tales of thrills and spills, and Mireille’s boys were obviously delighted to be presented as such heroic figures.

  Mireille said, ‘She twists lads round her little finger already, that one. Just wait till she’s sixteen or so. That’s when the trouble starts!’

  Pauli was wet too, but showed no other sign of exertion. After he took his coat off, he sat quietly in a corner from which his dark eyes in their pale setting were able to watch everything else in the room.

  He looked so like his father, self-contained, watchful, assessing.

  She said, ‘Pauli, come here and give me a kiss for 1944.’

  He rose instantly, with no boyish embarrassment, and came to her and embraced her. She tickled him and he threw back his head and laughed, and that happy laughing face was so like his father’s too, but not a version of his father that she saw often these days, that her heart contracted and she felt hot tears burning her eyes.